no tomato

“On dark mornings in Navarre, the fall-off hills rise in masses, flat on top. White clouds bite down on them like teeth. In my country too it is morning now, they are making coffee, they are getting out the black bread. No one eats black bread here. Spanish bread is the same color as the stones that lie along the roadside – gold. True, I often mistake stones for bread. Pilgrims’ hunger is a curious thing.

“The road itself was built by pilgrims of ancient times as they walked. Each carried a stone and set it in place. As is clear from the photographs, there were in general stones of quite good size. While the pilgrim’s trudged, they would pretend the stones were loaves of bread, and to keep spirits high, they sang songs about bread, or about the rock that was following them. ¡No me mates con tomate, mátame con bacalao! You can hear this one still, in bars, some nights. Don’t kill me with tomato, kill me with cod! What is it that keeps us from drowning in moments that rise and cover the heart?”